


Sacred fire

by Consulkingdetective221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, I hope, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Consulkingdetective221b/pseuds/Consulkingdetective221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The premise of this story is simple: what if Sherlock and John were having sex starting just after their first case?  How would they navigate their relationship with that hanging over them?  What problems would it cause, and solve?  This is the story of an unfolding love, which will span all three seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. Still learning how to format so bear with me.

Sherlock kept looking at him from across the table as they ate their dim sum. For someone who was “married to his work,” he seemed awfully intense, John thought. They had been eating mostly in comfortable silence, and that was fine. (How could it be so comfortable when he barely knew the man?) Still, John wondered if it was just his imagination that Sherlock’s eyes seemed heated. He had just had a massive adrenaline rush, after all. Nearly dying (or killing a man) could do that to a person. No, it was probably just overstimulation from a long, dangerous night. He decided to let it go.  
Back at 221B, John tried not to gasp too loudly as he was shoved roughly against the door of the sitting room, his mouth devoured all at once by a seemingly ravenous Sherlock. He was kissing back in microseconds, feeling his heart pounding and his cock rapidly standing to full attention. (Had he been half-hard at dinner? Must have been.) Sherlock reached down between them to rub at John’s erection as he tore his mouth away and commanded, “My bedroom. Now.” He met very little resistance as they stumbled blindly down the hall, kissing and groping.  
Sherlock made short work of divesting John of his clothing. John kicked off his shoes and socks and the trousers and pants that had been shoved down to pool around his ankles while Sherlock methodically stripped himself. Before John knew it he was being pulled down onto the bed, to rest and rub against Sherlock’s naked body.  
In the midst of John’s pleasure he hardly noticed when Sherlock gracefully reached back to his bedside table drawer and retrieved a couple of items. His mouth was still on John’s as he murmured, “Prep me.” He pushed a bottle of lubricant into John’s hand, along with a condom. John felt his pulse spike at the very thought of what Sherlock was asking. He was a doctor, and in theory he knew what to do. But in practice the most he had ever done with a bloke was a quick rub-and-tug or a blowjob. This was far more intimate, and exciting. His cock twitched against his thigh imagining it.  
He didn’t have to imagine it, though, and so he popped the cap on the lube, slicked his fingers, and slipped the tip of his finger into Sherlock. Sherlock’s gasp was intoxicating. He pushed in to the first knuckle, slipped out, pushed in farther, up to his hand. Sherlock was all tight heat, and already he was pushing down onto to John’s finger. John groaned at the wanton display, and slid a second finger home. Sherlock hissed and writhed. John pushed in and out, in and out, scissoring every now and again. Finally he added a third finger, mesmerized as he watched Sherlock’s chest rising and falling in evident arousal.  
All at once Sherlock sat up, saying, “Enough.” John’s fingers slipped from him as he turned onto all fours. “Take me from behind,” he said, and John scurried to do his bidding. He rolled on the condom and slicked it up, moaning at the friction on his cock. He took a moment to appreciate the long lines of Sherlock’s body. Then he lined up the head of his cock with Sherlock’s well-stretched anus and pushed in slowly. They both groaned as tight heat enveloped John, as John’s cock filled Sherlock up. John kept it slow for Sherlock’s sake, but before long Sherlock was moaning, “Harder!” John could do nothing but comply, his heart racing as he set up a steady, rapid pace. He held onto Sherlock’s slim hips as he drove in to him over and over. The pleasure was building rapidly. The sound of their bodies slapping together was filling the room, as was the heady scent of their desire. John still wasn’t satisfied; he tried to find the right angle until...  
“John!” He’d found it, then, he deduced as Sherlock shouted his name and gave a full-body shudder. John made it his mission to keep that angle and drive into that exact spot for as long as he could. Sherlock reached for one of John’s hands and placed it on his impressively hard erection, which was leaking wetly onto the sheets below them. John gave it a tug, and then another, and Sherlock shouted, “Fuck!” John was a little concerned about the noise they were making, considering the landlady lived on the premises and all, but he didn’t really care at the moment. All that mattered was that he was reaming Sherlock Holmes, bloody brilliant and bloody gorgeous consulting detective.  
Sherlock’s legs were shaking now, as if threatening to give out. He was thrusting back into John as John pounded him, and forward into John’s fist. John couldn’t help but think what a contrast it made, seeing this beautiful but aloof creature giving in to his sensuality when he initially seemed all about denying his own body. “Transport” and all that jazz. He wasn’t complaining, though. He was burning, positively out of his head with pleasure, and he couldn’t stop himself pounding the man silly. He stroked Sherlock’s cock faster and faster, in counterpoint to his own thrusts. It didn’t take long before Sherlock shuddered again and positively wailed John’s name as he began to come. His back arched and jets of semen shot out over John’s fist. John felt Sherlock’s arse spasm and clamp down around him, and it was all over for him in that moment. He slammed into Sherlock once, twice more before burying himself deep as pleasure drove through him in overwhelming waves, flooding the condom.  
Sherlock’s legs finally gave out, and they collapsed onto the bed together, John draped over Sherlock’s back. They both were heaving from exertion. John began to hear the siren call of sleep, and briefly wondered how Sherlock would feel about John staying the night in his bed. Sherlock rolled out from under him to lie on his back, gasping at the ceiling. They didn’t speak as they both drifted off to sleep.  
+++  
When John woke up in the morning (or noonish, rather), it was to an empty bed. He didn’t hear much going on out in the flat. He got up and headed for the shower. He hadn’t even brought a toothbrush over yet, but at least he could get the smell of sex off himself. After washing up, he returned to Sherlock’s bedroom to dress in day-old clothes. He felt hesitant to go out into the flat. What would be waiting for him?  
He found Sherlock in the kitchen, back ramrod straight as he peered into his microscope. He didn’t seem to notice that John had entered the room. John cleared his throat and said, “Good morning.” Sherlock seemed a little less remote but continued to study whatever it was under the scope as he said, “Ah, John, good morning. Tea?” John looked around and realized that Sherlock was asking, not offering. Baffled, he began searching the unfamiliar kitchen for the kettle, tea bags, mugs.  
This was bloody awkward, wasn’t it? Sherlock didn’t seem any different than what John knew of him, wasn’t acting as if anything had happened. Was that how they were going to play it? Did last night mean anything, or was it just a one-off? John felt disappointed at the latter thought. But it seemed increasingly likely that 1) Sherlock was not going to bring it up and 2), neither was John.  
The kettle whistled and John complied as Sherlock asked for two sugars, finding packets in a sugar bowl on the counter. He sat down opposite Sherlock, feeling distinctly at sea as to what he should talk about, if anything. Sherlock drank his tea without taking his eyes away from the scope. John sipped his own and asked, “So what are we up to today?” He instantly cringed at the “we.” Sherlock was under no obligation to provide entertainment or recreation to John. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. He was far too absorbed in his work, though he managed to answer absently, “No cases on, what with last night’s rousing conclusion. I’ll be running an experiment all afternoon. Then I might go to Bart’s for a while, look at a corpse or two. Standard procedure.”  
Right. Standard, John thought drily. “Well, I guess I’ll be moving my things in this afternoon, if that won’t disturb you too much.” Sherlock hummed a negative, and that seemed to be that. John was moving in.  
+++  
The weeks went by, and it didn’t happen again. John was just beginning to consider giving up, when a case came in. By Sherlock’s standards it was a 7, and he was avowedly bored, so he took it. It ended with him and John chasing an art-thief-turned-murderer down a back alley. John took the man down with relative ease, and it was a text to Lestrade and statements after that, into the small hours of the night. Sherlock seemed very pleased with himself; not so much with the paperwork. He made it as miserable as possible for everyone concerned, including John, who was getting tired.  
Back at the flat, they settled into their respective chairs with tea (made by John, of course). John sighed wearily and scrubbed a hand over his face. He heard something like a growl and started, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring. What’s more, there was something decidedly predatory gleaming in his eyes. John shivered.  
“That was quite the performance, John. Well done.” John didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged and smiled sheepishly. The predatory look on Sherlock’s face grew even more intense. Sherlock suddenly stood, divesting himself of his jacket and dropping it on his chair. He began to unbutton his shirt, much to John’s shock and secret delight. He walked towards his room, never taking his eyes off John, stripping his shirt off and carelessly letting it fall to the floor. John had to crane his neck around to watch as Sherlock passed through the kitchen. Sherlock gave one last glance over his shoulder, and disappeared into his room. He didn’t shut the door behind him.  
John wasn’t an idiot. It was pretty clear that he was being given an open invitation. But he was also confused. What did Sherlock want out of him, in general? Was this just about casual sex? Or did Sherlock Holmes actually want John Watson as his boyfriend? Did Sherlock ever do relationships? It didn’t seem like it, but John wasn’t sure what the rules were. He still didn’t know the man very well.  
He sat in his chair a moment more, but again, he wasn’t an idiot. This wasn’t an offer he was going to pass up. Sherlock was rude and abrasive, occasionally cruel, but somehow John’s attraction had not abated since their first meeting. He got up and made himself walk slowly (it would be unseemly to rush) to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, down to his pants. He looked quite pleased to see John and wordlessly lay back on his bed, keeping his eyes on John’s with unmistakable intent. John peeled off his jumper and T-shirt and got to work on his denims. Sherlock eyed his body appreciatively, humming low in his throat. God, the man was sexy when he wanted to be. It was like he had an on-and-off switch somewhere. He kept it all rigidly under control most of the time, but John was beginning to see that some of that control slipped every once in a while. Not that Sherlock wasn’t fucking masterful in bed, too.  
When he had stripped bare, he crawled onto the bed, over Sherlock’s mostly nude body. Sherlock’s hands were immediately everywhere. John leaned down to kiss him, and suddenly found himself flipped onto his back, lying under six feet of lanky detective. Sherlock plundered his mouth thoroughly before moving on to his throat. He sucked lightly, not enough to bruise, and John’s hips jerked instinctively. Sherlock growled his agreement and moved down to suck a nipple into his mouth. John was rock hard by this point, positively gagging for it. Sherlock kept moving south, laving his tongue into every nook and cranny he could find. He paused when he reached John’s cock, getting John’s attention. He locked eyes with John as he slowly lowered his mouth to take most of John down in one go. John groaned at both the sensation and the sight of Sherlock, looking as if he was starving to death and John’s cock was a feast. Sherlock sucked, then bobbed back up to the head, swirling his tongue. He made love to John’s cock like no-one ever had before, and John felt as if he could die from the pleasure of it.  
It wasn’t going to take long, at this rate. John realized with a shock that Sherlock had his cock out and was eagerly fisting himself in time with the movements of his mouth, and based on his breathing and the sounds he was making he was getting close, too. Sherlock wrapped a hand around the base of John’s cock and popped off for a moment to order, “Fuck my mouth” in a low, gravelly voice. Then he was back at it, and John tentatively began to thrust his hips. Sherlock groaned and jerked harder at himself; he was clearly getting off on it. Far be it from John to deny him. John began to let go, pumping himself in and out of Sherlock’s eager mouth. He could feel his orgasm getting ready to explode out of him; he was going to come hard. Sherlock opened his eyes wide and gasped around John’s cock, spilling suddenly and copiously over his own fist. It was enough for John to fall over the edge into bliss, shouting Sherlock’s name as he poured himself down Sherlock’s throat.  
Sherlock pulled off just before John became too sensitive, but not before he had wrung every last drop out of John. Perfect. He licked his lips languorously, looking at John with hooded eyes as he moved back up the bed. He lay down, panting, and closed his eyes. He didn’t say a word. No pillow-talk, then. John could live with that. He dozed for a while, then got up and went back to his own room for the night. It was better that way.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome all constructive comments. This is my first published fic, so I'm anxious to know how it's shaping up so far. Also, since it's a WIP, comments will help me with the direction of this fic. Thanks!


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